


Rule of Fives

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), BDSM, Blow Jobs, Caning, Consensual, Consensual Kink, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley cries, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Punishment, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Trying To Do Better, rated E for emotional noodles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24470410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: “Idiot!” Crowley smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand in a gesture of frustration.He spins on his heel and marches straight back into the bookshop, his fingers flexing at his sides as he looks around for his sunglasses. Grumbling under his breath, he spots them on the corner of Aziraphale’s desk and moves to snatch them up.Aziraphale’s hand catches his wrist in a lightning-quick strike, holding him fast. Nervously, Crowley glances towards where Aziraphale is sitting and not even looking up from his book, just holding tightly onto Crowley’s wrist and reading. No, not reading, Crowley realises, he’s waiting.“I don’t know what I did,” Crowley admits, relaxing his arm rather than fighting Aziraphale for control.“Is that so?” Aziraphale says coolly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 214
Collections: Adversarial Anniversary Celebration, Hot Omens





	Rule of Fives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vgersix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/gifts).



> To my dearest vgersix, who inspires me so very much. I hope that this is soft enough whilst also to your taste. It's always a pleasure to write for you.

“Idiot!” Crowley smacks his forehead with the heel of his hand in a gesture of frustration.

He spins on his heel and marches straight back into the bookshop, his fingers flexing at his sides as he looks around for his sunglasses. Grumbling under his breath, he spots them on the corner of Aziraphale’s desk and moves to snatch them up.

Aziraphale’s hand catches his wrist in a lightning-quick strike, holding him fast. Nervously, Crowley glances towards where Aziraphale is sitting and not even looking up from his book, just holding tightly onto Crowley’s wrist and reading. No, not reading, Crowley realises, he’s waiting.

“I don’t know what I did,” Crowley admits, relaxing his arm rather than fighting Aziraphale for control.

“Is that so?” Aziraphale says coolly, turning in his chair to look up at Crowley. “You were just outside the door, did you think I wouldn’t hear?”

Crowley feels his brow crease in confusion as he tries to remember what had happened just seconds before but all he can think of is the way Aziraphale’s hand wraps around his wrist so completely. He should be able to do better than this! Aziraphale deserves better from him. He’s such a disappointment to Aziraphale. Crowley shakes his head, trying to clear that last thought from his mind like erasing an etch-a-sketch.

He’s not supposed to think like that, putting himself down or doubting his worthiness, they’ve been working on it together. The realisation slots into place like a missing puzzle piece and his frown dissolves into a look of mild surprise.

“Oh,” he says, “I didn’t realise I’d said it out loud.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twists and Crowley wants to cringe away from the disappointment in his expression.

“You knew you had thought it though, correct?” Aziraphale’s tone is gentle but insistent.

Crowley looks down at the floor, trying very hard not to look like a sulky toddler receiving a scolding, even if that happens to be exactly how he feels.

“Yes, Aziraphale,” he says quietly, “I knew.”

With a nod of acknowledgement, Aziraphale releases Crowley’s wrist and pushes himself to his feet. He strokes Crowley’s cheek with one gentle caress, a soothing touch that Crowley leans into just a little.

“You know what to do, Crowley.” Aziraphale punctuates his implied order with a soft kiss before walking to the door to lock it and draw all the blinds.

As he strips, Crowley focuses on keeping his breathing under control. He knows that if he lets his mind wander freely, he’ll start thinking about how disappointed Aziraphale must be in him, how he can’t seem to learn this lesson. Aziraphale doesn’t want that, so Crowley breathes carefully and mindfully as he folds his clothes into a neat pile and sets it on the coffee table, his shoes tucked underneath.

Aziraphale returns and settles himself on the sofa, almost exactly in the middle, without so much as glancing at Crowley until he’s comfortable. He holds one hand up to Crowley and Crowley takes it in his, using it as support as he sinks onto the sofa to kneel beside Aziraphale.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, his hands resting on Aziraphale’s thigh, “I didn’t mean to say it.”

“I know, love,” Aziraphale smiles and kisses Crowley’s mouth, pulling away before Crowley can even think to deepen the kiss. “These are your rules, though, and you asked me to enforce them. Tell me what you said, please.”

“I called myself an idiot because I left the shop without my glasses.” Crowley can’t bring himself to look Aziraphale in the eyes as he confesses his transgression.

“That’s a five-letter word, five sets of five as punishment,” Aziraphale states flatly, although Crowley doesn’t know whose benefit it’s for. He nods anyway, still looking down at his hands. “When you’re ready, then.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out, and Crowley feels prepared for his punishment. He stretches out across Aziraphale’s lap, keeping his arse just to Aziraphale’s right and tucking his penis out of the way, down along the valley of his thighs. Shifting to get comfortable, Crowley folds his arms under his head only to immediately grab a cushion and bunch it up for his pillow instead.

“Ready, angel,” Crowley says, his face turned towards the back of the sofa so Aziraphale can see him.

At first, Aziraphale just strokes him in long caresses from neck to tailbone, calming him as if he’s a flighty animal in need of reassurance. It’s perhaps not as far from the truth as Crowley would like it to be; nonetheless, Aziraphale’s touch does soothe him until he feels less like he’s going to jump out of his skin. His eyes close, barely flickering when Aziraphale’s gentle touches move on to Crowley’s buttocks and thighs.

“I’ll begin in a moment, love,” Aziraphale says, softly breaking the silence, “will you count for me?”

“Yes,” Crowley answers automatically. Aziraphale always asks, although his response never changes.

“I love you very much.” Crowley feels a kiss pressed against the bare skin of his shoulder and smiles despite what’s coming.

He can almost feel the change in the air as Aziraphale gets into place, his left arm reaching around Crowley’s waist to hold him still and close. Crowley hears the snap of Aziraphale’s fingers that summons the cane although he never sees it. The smooth, cool length strokes across the top of the backs of his thighs, familiarising him with the feel of it.

Forcing out the breath he’s been unconsciously holding, Crowley makes an effort to relax against Aziraphale. It’ll hurt so much more if he’s tense and it’s already going to hurt a great deal. Starting with his toes and working upwards, Crowley consciously relaxes his muscles until he’s loose and breathing easily.

The cane swishes through the air and strikes Crowley neatly across the buttocks. There’s a split second between Crowley being aware of the impact and the explosion of white-hot pain. His body immediately tenses and he has to fight to get it back under control. A litany of curses build up behind his teeth, begging to be given voice. Swallowing them down, Crowley says a single word.

“One.”

The burst of pain dulls into a more bearable heat and it takes every ounce of self-control that Crowley possesses not to brace for the next blow. The strike lands just under Crowley’s arse, crossing both his thighs. He hisses through the pain, his eyes screwed up tight.

“Two,” he manages through gritted teeth.

The third comes faster, Crowley is still tense when it hits and it feels like the slice of a blade against his skin. He yelps and buries his face in the cushion, huffing a breath through the pain.

“Three,” he says, muffled by the face-full of upholstery.

Aziraphale releases his hold of Crowley’s waist and slides his hand to the side of Crowley’s face. Despite wanting to stay hiding in the cushion, Crowley doesn’t resist as Aziraphale turns his head back to his original position. He cracks open his left eye to peer up at Aziraphale, needing to reassure himself that Aziraphale isn’t upset with him. Instead, he’s beaming love and calm at Crowley, gently petting his cheek and relaxing him back into his lap.

The first strokes are often the hardest for Crowley. There’s no warm-up with a punishment beating, no slow build through pain to help him adjust. This isn’t for his enjoyment, after all, this is to help him learn a lesson he’s been struggling with. Another stroke lands.

“Four.”

Crowley flinches, but the strike is not as harsh as those that came before. It’s a little more bearable.

“Five!” Crowley cries out in place of the curse he wants to shout, almost as soon as the cane lands on his backside.

“Good boy, Crowley, very good,” Aziraphale coos as he sets the cane across the backs of Crowley’s calves and rubs his palm into the hot welts rising across Crowley’s buttocks. The softness of Aziraphale’s attention is almost as hard to bear as the strokes of the cane, but for entirely different reasons. Crowley  _ likes _ the way it feels to be praised and made much of by Aziraphale, only Aziraphale.

It goes like this, Crowley counting five more sharp strikes and Aziraphale tenderly melting him back into relaxation before picking up the cane for the next set. It goes like this until Crowley has counted 21 strokes of the cane, four left to take, and his tears begin to fall.

Aziraphale’s arm across his back holds him a little tighter, more like a hug than a restraint, and Crowley sobs. The cane comes down again, setting Crowley’s flesh aflame with pain, and he howls, squirming against Aziraphale as if he stands a chance of getting away. Aziraphale holds fast and waits.

“Twenty-two,” Crowley spits once he’s still again.

His back and ribs are heaving with the force of his sobs and the cushion is damp with tears. There’s catharsis in the crying, something that feels like absolution in the way that the tears leave him feeling washed out and new. Aziraphale is clever with his lashes today, bringing Crowley to tears at the exact point that he needs them and not a moment before.

The next strike of the cane lands across a particularly tender spot, the pain is blinding and all-consuming for a moment before simmering down. Crowley’s entire body tries to rear up off Aziraphale’s lap, to get away from the source of the pain, to protect himself. Aziraphale holds him fast, using his torso to pin Crowley’s writhing body onto his lap. Finally, Crowley stills, aside from his rapid breaths.

“Twenty-three. Please, no more,” he begins to beg, “I’ll be good, angel, please. It’s only two left, I’ll be good, I will.”

He twists in Aziraphale’s grip to look up at him, knowing that he must be a mess, and still pleading to be forgiven his last two strokes. His angel looks so soft and loving, a being of forgiveness and light, surely Crowley will be allowed this one request by an angel who loves him.

“You are being so good for me right now, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks gently, setting down the cane once more and changing up his hold on Crowley’s body. His left hand strokes Crowley’s cheek, wiping away tear tracks and letting Crowley nuzzle into his palm. “You can keep being good for two more, can’t you?”

Crowley’s bottom lip trembles and he looks away, although he can’t bear to pull away from Aziraphale’s hand.

“Please, angel,  _ please! _ ” he tries again, “I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” Aziraphale asks, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“Yes, anything for you,” Crowley says as he covers Aziraphale’s palm in kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Wonderful, then you can take two more strokes for me,” says Aziraphale with a bright smile.

Crowley feels his face fall, the corners of his mouth curling down in dismay. He wrenches away from Aziraphale’s touch and burrows into the cushion held in his arms. Of course he  _ can _ take the last two, he just really doesn’t want to.

Aziraphale’s hands run down the length of Crowley’s body, a reminder that this is all done with love and respect. If Crowley truly wants to stop it, he can, he always has that power. Damn it all, though, he does want to take his full punishment for Aziraphale, to show that he’s serious about changing this behaviour.

He settles back into Aziraphale’s lap and gives a little nod to proceed. Aziraphale delivers the last two strokes in an efficient manner, waiting for Crowley’s count before making the final strike. For all his begging and pleading, Crowley doesn’t cry again. He writhes and thrashes in Aziraphale’s grip, biting his bottom lip so hard that he can taste blood, but he takes the last of his punishment in something almost like silence.

“Twenty-five,” he says with relief and upset warring in his voice.

A muffled  _ fwomph _ sound signals Aziraphale dismissal of the cane, a rushing of air to fill a small, cane-shaped vacuum. Its absence is reassuring, although Crowley knows that Aziraphale would never strike him beyond any agreed punishment amount. He feels better knowing that it’s gone.

The urge to sob rises in his throat again, this time coupled with a strong desire to curl up and hide somewhere dark. Aziraphale’s hands are moving across his back, but Crowley still twists onto his side, burying his face in Aziraphale’s side and tucking his knees up until he’s curled around Aziraphale’s body.

“You did so well for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale speaks in a gentle hush, running his hands up and down Crowley’s back. “I’m very proud of you.”

Crowley mumbles something in response, it’s not anything that resembles a word but his intention of deflecting the praise is clear. He noses at Aziraphale’s shirt, untucking it from the waistband of his trousers until Crowley can feel skin to press his face into.

“Don’t argue with me, love,” Aziraphale says kindly, stroking hand over hand down Crowley’s spine. “I am proud of you and you are wonderful, brilliant, clever, witty, funny, and brave. These are the things you deserve to hear and think about yourself.”

Crowley’s answering grumble is a little softer. He’s exposed a decent area of angelic skin to rub his face against and it’s working to take a lot of the bite out of his objections. His backside hurts fiercely and he knows that there will be bruises forming already. The part of his brain that isn’t dedicated to crushing his face into Aziraphale’s side wonders how they’ll look once the pain has simmered down to a heated ache. He wonders if Aziraphale likes the look of them crisscrossing his pale skin, knowing he put them there, knowing Crowley asked him to.

The edge of Aziraphale’s hand nudges at a tender spot, a caress that wandered too far down Crowley’s body, and Crowley hisses, jerking away automatically.

“Sorry, love. Is it very painful?” Aziraphale asks, amazing Crowley with how sincere he sounds, all things considered.

He makes a sad little noise of affirmation, not yet ready to use words, then pauses, reconsiders, recalibrates, and shakes his head.

“Just painful enough?” Aziraphale tries again and Crowley nods, humming.

Aziraphale’s hands are still smoothing down Crowley’s back, petting him like an animal. It’s alright for Crowley to like the comfort of it during these moments when he’s hurting and learning an important lesson.

The nuzzling becomes lazy kissing along Aziraphale’s hip as Crowley reminds himself of what he wants to take away from what has just happened. He is loved, he is wanted, he is valued. Aziraphale deserves things that make him happy and he has excellent taste in most respects. If he loves and wants Crowley, then Crowley must be worth wanting. It’s a simple logic exercise that Crowley has been trying to learn for close to two years, ever since they’d exchanged whispered confessions of love on Crowley’s sofa that August night after the world hadn’t ended.

“Love?” Aziraphale catches Crowley’s attention with a single, softly spoken word.

He twists away and looks up at Aziraphale’s open, loving face. Words still aren’t coming to him; luckily Aziraphale has enough experience of Crowley in this state to understand how to navigate it.

“Do you need anything right now?”

Crowley thinks- as much as he can while he’s full of endorphins and calm- there  _ is _ something he needs but he’s not sure how to ask for it. Giving Aziraphale his most meaningful look, a look so packed full of intent and implication that Aziraphale would have been able to discern its meaning in a darkened room, Crowley slides backwards off Aziraphale’s lap and worms between his knees.

The sofa is high enough that Crowley can kneel up to nuzzle at Aziraphale’s crotch, protecting the throbbing skin of his buttocks from contact. With an amused little sigh, Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s hair back from his face and begins unbuttoning his trousers.

This need, it’s not unusual after a punishment, and likely what Aziraphale was speculating about when he had asked. Unlike a human submissive, Crowley has no need of a cool drink or warm blanket after a beating. What he needs, what he craves, after being subjected to such brutality at Aziraphale’s hand, is a sign of trust. For two beings shaped the way they usually are, very little suggests a deep trust like allowing the recently wounded party to hold one’s cock in their teeth and jaws. If Aziraphale still trusts Crowley to pleasure him, then all must be well.

Crowley knows there’s something deeper, something ugly that twists out of the light of his introspection, behind this need of his, something about being useful and used, something about forgiveness and being on his knees, but Aziraphale has never pressed for more of an answer and Crowley is grateful for that mercy.

He’s balancing on the knife-edge between the dozy empty-headed haze of submissiveness and the sharp-fingered want of lust as Aziraphale pushes down his trousers and underwear, revealing the dark blond curls and soft length of his cock. A quick glance up at Aziraphale’s face gives Crowley the permission he needs to lunge forwards and take the head in his mouth.

He loves Aziraphale like this, a passive weight on his tongue, not demanding or taking anything, just existing in his mouth. Crowley could sit like this for hours if he were allowed, just holding Aziraphale safe between his lips, content and peaceful. That’s not Crowley’s aim right now, though.

Suckling gently, Crowley draws Aziraphale’s cock fully into his mouth, delighting at the little gasps of pleasure that he’s causing already. Gradually, urged on by the pressure of Crowley’s mouth, Aziraphale stiffens and grows.

_ This is because of me, _ Crowley thinks with glee,  _ I’m making him feel like this and he trusts me to do this for him. _ It’s a delicious thought that fills Crowley with a warmth miles removed from the heat of his beaten arse.

He sucks harder, needier, urging Aziraphale up to full hardness until the thickness makes his jaw ache and it’s a struggle to get his lips down to the base. A struggle that he enjoys nonetheless, forcing himself beyond what’s comfortable to sheathe Aziraphale’s length in his throat and wring those sweet, helpless noises from Aziraphale’s own lips.

Crowley’s hands slide up Aziraphale’s legs and come to rest on his thighs, holding him down as a reminder that this is something that Crowley is giving, not something Aziraphale can take. He can get ever so greedy when Crowley gives over control, holding his head still and thrusting deep into Crowley’s tight throat. In a gesture that expresses his understanding and commitment to letting Crowley lead, Aziraphale slips his fingers under Crowley’s palms and lets him hold them in place.

In response, Crowley squeezes gently and glances up at Aziraphale’s flushed face, his eyes lightly closed in pleasure. He looks so beautiful, his lips slightly parted, pink and shining where his tongue has touched. Crowley loves him beyond reason, in all manner of conflicting and confusing ways. He loves that Aziraphale allows him this indulgence, content to sit and receive Crowley’s attentions. He loves that Aziraphale is willing to hold him accountable with word and hand and cane. That he can get just what he needs to feel safe in his skin from the only thing deserving of his utter devotion.

Aziraphale’s hips twitch upwards, an involuntary motion in reaction to the drawn-out pleasure that Crowley is causing. A shiver of delight runs down Crowley’s spine at the breathy gasps that currently pass for angelic respiration. Aziraphale is at the brink and Crowley’s next actions will decide whether the wave will crest or recede.

He pushes forwards, burying Aziraphale’s cock as deep as he can manage and allowing his throat to spasm around the head. Taking one of Aziraphale’s hands, he guides it to the bulge under his jaw, the place where Aziraphale’s cock is distorting the slim lines of his neck. Pressing Aziraphale’s palm against the bulge in his throat, Crowley rocks back and forth until he’s sure that Aziraphale can feel himself through the scant barrier of muscle and skin.

Aziraphale is moments from losing control, Crowley can taste the sour-salt of him at the back of his tongue and feel the pulses of tension that run through Aziraphale’s entire body. The hand at his throat grips ever so slightly tighter, squeezing around the head of Aziraphale’s cock as Crowley forces himself down to the root of it.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale sounds strangled which seems faintly hilarious to Crowley in that moment.

Then he can think of nothing but Aziraphale’s hand on the back of his head, holding him down, and the hot, stinging spill of Aziraphale’s orgasm as it pulses into him. He’d choke if he cared to but that hardly sounds like fun.

The hands at his head and neck relax, surrendering the moment of control they took and turning to petting as Crowley sucks the last shivers of Aziraphale’s orgasm from him. He does so love to be fussed and touched like this, Aziraphale’s fingers in his hair and stroking against his cheek.

When he pulls off, he leaves Aziraphale’s cock soft and damp laying against his thigh. It should have been overwhelmingly sensitive, Aziraphale should have wanted him off much sooner. It warms Crowley to know that Aziraphale uses those angelic shortcuts and overrides on his corporation just to give Crowley what he wants.

“Come up here, Crowley,” says Aziraphale as he holds his hands out, “let me hold you.”

It takes a bit of negotiating, getting up from the floor and back into Aziraphale’s arms. His knees are sore from the bare floorboards, his thighs and buttocks ache with a pulsing heat, and there’s just no way to sit in Aziraphale’s lap without upsetting all of his hurts. Ultimately, Crowley decides as he drapes his legs over one of Aziraphale’s soft thighs, being held like this is worth all the petty complaints of his body.

He hums happily as Aziraphale kisses up his neck and behind his jaw, moving his head to direct the attention where he wants it. Aziraphale is sweetly obliging, bringing Crowley back to himself with these gentle touches.

“My beautiful love,” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s skin, “my brilliant, clever, precious darling.”

Crowley doesn’t shy away or make a fuss, he can stand this now that he feels like he’s earned it properly. Aziraphale can call him any number of sweet things when Crowley feels like he’s been particularly pleasing. The lingering taste of come on his tongue does tend to convince him of that. He cuddles a little closer, his arms looping around Aziraphale’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asks, pulling back from Crowley’s neck to look at him more directly.

He wants to slither off Aziraphale’s lap and maybe prostrate himself on the ground at Aziraphale’s feet, all the better for seeking forgiveness.

“Speaking badly of myself,” Crowley says slowly, addressing the space to the left of Aziraphale’s head, “breaking a rule, making you have to punish me.”

He would have gone on listing his faults, the sins for which he wishes to seek atonement, but Aziraphale’s frown looks meaningful. Crowley swallows, silencing the remainder of his thoughts.

“Sweetheart, you’re forgiven already,” Aziraphale says softly, reaching to stroke Crowley’s cheek. “You’ve done ever so well for me and I am exceptionally proud of you. You must remember, Crowley, that no matter what else you may be, above all other labels you have, you are mine. I love you and will keep you safe from everything, even yourself. You are mine and you are perfect.”

Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck, his resolve wavering in the face of so much love and adoration.

“Love you too, obviously,” he mutters into the linen of Aziraphale’s shirt collar.

Aziraphale’s hands are on him, stroking the length of his back and the angles of his leg, firm caresses that press him into Aziraphale’s broad chest. It’s an invitation to stay, to cling, to take the comfort he needs for as long as he needs. And so he does, curling up in Aziraphale’s arms.

“You are so very clever, imaginative, inventive, and ever so cunning,” says Aziraphale, sounding exactly as if he believes what he’s saying. Crowley allows it without objection because he’s rather comfortable, if Aziraphale wants to say these things then Crowley can tolerate hearing them. “Oh, love, would you like me to deal with that for you?”

It takes Crowley an embarrassingly long time to work out what Aziraphale is referring to, only truly understanding when Aziraphale’s fingers brush against the hard length of Crowley’s cock.

“Oh,” he says softly, wondering how long he’s been in this state without noticing. “Yes please, angel.”

Somewhere above his head, Aziraphale makes a happy sound and presses his lips into Crowley’s hair. It makes Crowley feel small and safe to be so surrounded by his lover, held from all angles in a way that he never gets to feel at any other time. Aziraphale closes his hand around Crowley’s cock, squeezing gently.

Gasping at the pressure, Crowley lifts his hips a fraction only to hiss in discomfort as his abused muscles make known their displeasure. Aziraphale eases him back down with a careful hand.

“Hush, darling, I’ve got you,” he whispers into Crowley’s hair, “let me take care of you.”

Crowley melts at that, never able to refuse Aziraphale’s requests. The tension leaves him, taking the biting pain with it. The slow, steady strokes of Aziraphale’s hand are accompanied by the not unpleasant sensation of aching heat in the welts left by Aziraphale’s cane. A little pain to temper the pleasure, like the burn of a good whiskey as a counterpoint to the spreading warmth that follows. These are the sensations that Crowley has always indulged in, more so now that Aziraphale has proven so willing to provide measures of both.

The pace Aziraphale sets is almost too slow, a tease designed to frustrate or break Crowley. He whimpers, burying his face deeper into Aziraphale’s shirt. How good it is to be naked for Aziraphale to hold like this, how right. He’s vaguely aware of the little shushing noises that Aziraphale is making, soothing him like a fretful animal, but bless it all, it does seem to be working.

Aziraphale takes him apart so slowly that Crowley is sure he’ll never climax, he’ll just exist on this ever building wave forever, pleasure and release a hair’s breadth from his reach. He’s sure of this right up until the first streak of come is forced from his body.

Impossibly, Crowley is caught completely by surprise by his own orgasm. His face contorts to display his shock and delight as his hands clutch at Aziraphale’s back, holding him tightly through a release that lasts a millennium.

Ever aware of Crowley’s needs, Aziraphale gentles him through his climax, soothing and petting him by turns as he pants great gasping breaths, one hand never leaving his cock.

An eternity later, Aziraphale raises his hand to where they can both see the mess that Crowley has made of him. Feeling rather like he’s accepting a sacrament, Crowley circles Aziraphale’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger and holds Aziraphale’s fingertips with his other hand.

Without looking up for approval, Crowley licks at Aziraphale’s palm, lapping up the spend he’s left all over the hand of his beloved. He’s soft yet thorough, cleaning Aziraphale with delicate strokes of his clever tongue.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, “you wondrous, marvellous, incredible creature.”

Crowley’s heart fairly trills at the way Aziraphale sounds so sincere and awed. He feels very special and deeply loved. Definitely not an idiot at all. How could he be when something like Aziraphale loves and trusts him so completely?

  
  



End file.
